Twist and Turn

by Tim Tigner

I slid the door up a couple of feet, rolled under, then settled it back into place. I spent the next minute allowing my senses to adapt to the new environment while listening for a telltale beep and scanning the walls for a blinking red light.

  Nothing triggered a warning.

  After confirming that there were no external windows, I turned on the production bay lights. The big room contained nothing but a few wooden forklift pallets and about forty linear feet of empty metal storage racks. The bare concrete floor had a bit of a shine, as though it had recently been washed.

  The remaining interior of Personal Propulsion Systems was no less generic than its exterior. Aside from the big bay I’d entered, it contained five offices, a set of restrooms, a conference room and a kitchen. The furniture was solid but probably a decade old. Sun-bleached gray laminate and stained navy fabric. Looked like it had come with the building. No paperwork, no electronics. Not a calendar on the wall, not a fan in the corner.

  I took pictures of everything, and then made a video circuit.

  Only two of the offices felt like they’d been used, or rather, recently cleaned out. The two smaller ones. The other three had the look of rooms still staged by the leasing agent.

  Both the used offices were interior facing, with windows onto the production floor rather than the street. Was that a sign of something to hide or just efficiency trumping ego?

  Normally I would bounce that question off Katya. She had both an acutely analytical mind and elevated interpersonal intuition. A rare combination that made her superior at sussing the meaning out of certain situations, especially when the driving motivation was more complex than one of the seven deadly sins.

  I missed her so.

  I gave the offices another run-through, looking behind bookcases for lost papers and beneath desk drawers. I found nothing.

  Nothing in the house. Nothing in the office. Just as Vic had said. Had he been right about the rest?

  Was my charter plane hypothesis hooey?

  Was Katya dead?

  No. I didn’t believe that. I wouldn’t believe that. I couldn’t believe that.

  What was I missing?

  I turned off the light, sat down in the middle of the production floor, crossed my legs and tried to absorb everything. I attempted to calm and quiet my cerebral cortex while allowing the back of my brain to dwell on the myriad subtleties that suffused the ground, the walls and the air. I began to listen, intently. To feel, acutely. To breathe, deeply.

  The stench of spoiled food intervened.

  The leaky dumpster.

  It hadn’t bothered me until I attempted to focus. It was like trying to take a critical test with someone sniffling in the background. I struggled to ignore it, but the stink overwhelmed my other senses, pushing them off balance and out of kilter.

  My thoughts turned to the big rubbish bin. I highly doubted that my clever nemesis had suffered the judgment lapse that would be required to leave a smoking gun in the trash. A sales receipt. A napkin sketch. The cardboard backing of a used up notepad. But I had nowhere else to turn at that moment.

  I would reinspect both premises during the day. Assume the added risk in exchange for improved lighting. But I wasn’t especially hopeful.

  I raised the garage door and rolled back under.

  My focus now on the dumpster, I detected the buzzing of flies. Lots of flies. Lovely.

  The stinky receptacle was a big gray contraption. Old metal, dented and scratched. I lifted the lid and peered inside as the streetlight flickered and the insects buzzed.

  The source of the stench was immediately evident, but it took a few blinks to identify, so odd was the sight.

  The flies didn’t help.

  I used the flashlight on my phone, just to be certain. Even took a photo. No mistake about it. The dumpster was piled high with two types of food. Food now rotting in the Florida heat. A boatload of potatoes and a sea of eggs.

  70

  Accessorizing

  Location: Unknown

  WERE IT NOT for the cigarette dangling from her lips, Katya might have mistaken the woman entering her cell for Sabrina dressed in work clothes. The two women shared the same build and patrician bearing. Their faces had similar features, accented by lustrous black hair and plump lips. But as she got closer, Katya saw that the woman before her was older than Sabrina. Probably by ten years, but maybe less given the cigarette use.

  Fearing the worst, Katya fixed her gaze on the intruder’s dark eyes. They appeared intelligent, but telegraphed no emotion. Her facial expression was also frustratingly neutral. Like someone showing up for a routine job.

  Or a sociopath.

  Katya’s eyes moved on to the woman’s hands. Her left held a canvas bag. Her right a thick strap made of the same khaki material. It had wires coming out of both ends and a chrome keyhole exposed in the middle. One of those circular keyholes, like on bicycle locks and vending machines.

  The intruder stopped and studied Katya in the dim light.

  Katya finally caught on. “You’re Sabrina’s sister.”

  “I’m Shakira. Please raise your shirt.” Shakira didn’t acknowledge the relationship, but the erudite intonation of her words resembled Sabrina’s. There was a coldness coming off her, however, that Katya had never sensed from Sabrina. Even when her former friend was holding a gun.

  As Shakira demonstrated what she wanted by exposing her own toned midriff, Katya corrected an earlier assessment. Shakira wasn’t holding a strap. It was a belt. A buckle-less belt with wires protruding from both ends and a cigarette-pack sized object in the center.

  Katya began to shiver. “What is that?”

  “Raise your shirt!”

  Suddenly, gulags and galleys didn’t look so bad. Katya considered resisting, but her inner logician quickly concluded that would not end well. She was chained to a wall. Shakira was clearly committed to a plan. Best to get to the other side of that bridge without cigarette burns and bruises.

  Katya lifted the top of her scrubs, exposing a few inches of skin but no more. Please, no more.

  Shakira tossed her cigarette to the ground, then wrapped the belt about Katya’s waist. She cinched it tight with a big binder clip, ensuring that the box snugged tight against Katya’s lumbar spine.

  Shakira then pulled a soldering iron from her bag and went to work attaching the taut wires to a tiny plastic device. While Katya watched in horror, it began emitting a dot of red light.

  Katya’s shaking grew worse.

  Continuing with the calm of a battlefield surgeon, Shakira covered the connection with burlap and began to sew the belt shut. She used thick black upholstery string and a menacing needle. The tools were crude, but her fingers quick. She finished before Katya stopped shaking.

  The clip disappeared into the canvas bag only to be replaced by a big pair of scissors. Shakira used them to snip the thread and excess cloth.

  Katya thought that was it, but the sadist wasn’t done yet. After Shakira’s cool hands confirmed that the box was centered on Katya’s spine and the diode aligned with her bellybutton, she reached back into her bag and extracted a familiar household item.

  “No,” Katya pleaded, half to Shakira, half to God.

  Shakira looked up at her. “Yes.”

  The evil sister opened her superglue multipack and punctured the tips of all four tubes. Then, one by one, she squeezed them out, cementing the belt to Katya’s waist.

  When Shakira finally finished, Katya looked down at her new wardrobe item with its shiny keyhole in back and demonic red dot up front. It was too small and light to be a suicide belt. Those were packed with explosives and shrapnel. Bolts and ball bearings and nails. This weighed less than half a pound. Was it some kind of electronic leash? A shock collar? A tracking bracelet?

  Shakira clearly wasn’t going to say.

  But she did surprise Katya. She pulled a small brass key from her pants pocket and raised it in display.

  Katya found herself swallowing dry.

>   Instead of inserting the key into the box on the belt, Shakira used it to remove the padlock from Katya’s chain.

  Katya said, “Thank you,” without thinking. Shakira’s actions had likely made her situation worse, not better. The question was, How much worse?

  Shakira picked up her bag and walked back toward the exit. Before ducking through the makeshift doorway, she turned and beckoned.

  How much worse? Katya was about to find out.

  71

  Permission Slip

  Western Nevada

  VIC HIT ANSWER without checking the phone’s screen. He was running late for his boss’s staff meeting and gunning the gas to make a light. “Special Agent Link.”

  “It’s your special assistant calling.”

  Vic made the light then glanced at his phone. A Texas area code. Another burner number, no doubt. “Good to hear from you, Achilles. Not a great time, though.”

  “Did you seriously just tell me that it’s not a good time for you?”

  Vic started to retort, but stopped himself as the comment sank in. He hadn’t thought about it until that very moment, but his personal situation really wasn’t that bad. Not in the grand scheme of things. Yes, his career was off track. Yes, he was working for a dishonorable man. But he hadn’t been crippled or diagnosed with cancer. And the woman he loved was neither dead nor being held hostage.

  Vic pushed his own problems aside and focused on the present opportunity—beginning with a self-assessment. He didn’t believe Achilles. He didn’t disbelieve him either. Vic was exactly where the judicial system wanted him to be, doing exactly what it required of all Americans. He was presuming innocence until guilt was proven. Vic would also be doing precisely what the Justice Department required of him in particular, and enforcing its duly-issued arrest warrant.

  But that opportunity would come later—if ever. At that moment, he had to pick between conflicting priorities. Either looking good before his boss or solving his case.

  “I’m rushing to a meeting. Do you have an update for me?”

  “I might. Depends on what you have for me.”

  “This isn’t a negotiation, Achilles. Either we help each other or we don’t.”

  “I’m not trying to negotiate. I need your puzzle piece to see if mine fits. And don’t think I don’t know you’d arrest me if you could, regardless.”

  Vic took a deep breath, then uncapped the pink bottle and downed a swallow of antacid. “Hold on. I’ll pull over.”

  “Thank you.”

  Vic opened his laptop and called up the report he’d compiled on Personal Propulsion Systems. “PPS was acquired twelve months ago in a private transaction for an undisclosed price. The deal included all intellectual property, inventory and equipment. It included the assumption of a lease. It did not lock down any employees.”

  “So they assumed all the obligations and bought all the assets except the people?” Achilles clarified.

  “That appears to be the case.”

  “The old owners basically just cashed out and walked away?”

  “For an undisclosed sum.”

  “How many people did the rebooted company employ?”

  “Just four.”

  “That seems low. Most serious tech startups have three to four times that number. Are they all Maltese?”

  Vic hesitated. He wasn’t comfortable exposing that aspect of the investigation. But Achilles’ tone implied skepticism, and it might be helpful to learn what he knew. “According to their passports.”

  “Are they really Middle Eastern?”

  “We’re not sure. But it does appear that all four are related. Two brothers married to two sisters. Oz and Sabrina are younger; Omar and Shakira are older.”

  Achilles remained quiet long enough that Vic began to wonder if the call had dropped. He was checking the screen when Achilles said, “So it’s now a family business—Maltese or otherwise. That’s good to know. What purchases has PPS made since the acquisition?”

  “They appear to have run everything, personal and professional, through a single business credit card account. You interested in their production-related purchases?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Early on, it was mostly chemicals, raw materials and laboratory supplies. Some mold-making equipment. Exactly what you’d expect from a jetpack manufacturer.”

  “What chemicals?”

  “The ones used to make rocket fuel. I checked. There’s aluminum powder, iron oxide, white fuming nitric acid, white phosphorus, ammonium perchlorate, and a few others I’d be hard pressed to properly pronounce.”

  “All in large quantities?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you text the list to me?”

  The request surprised Vic, given the implication. “Are you going to leave your phone on?”

  “Perhaps you could do it while we speak. Just copy and paste the whole spreadsheet, business and personal purchases.” Before Vic could respond, Achilles added, “What were their more recent purchases?”

  Vic readied the text, but didn’t hit send. “There’s nothing since the day you escaped the bunker. Clearly, they’re staying off the grid. A few weeks back they bought a used forklift and a bunch of shrink wrap.”

  “No eggs or potatoes?”

  Vic wasn’t sure he’d heard that right. He’d been distracted by preparing the text. “Say again?”

  “Did they buy pallet loads of eggs and potatoes?”

  “No. Is that surprising?”

  “A little bit.”

  “Why?”

  Achilles hesitated.

  Vic could guess why. He’d found something. Most likely at the PPS offices. Vic was essentially asking Achilles to confirm his location. Vic had already sent all the law enforcement agencies around Cape Canaveral a BOLO. Surely Achilles had anticipated that. This wouldn’t actually change anything. It was more a test of their partnership.

  “I found large quantities of both products in the dumpster behind their office.”

  “Did you now? Thank you for saying so.”

  “Can I get the list?”

  “I’m texting you their purchase history now. But just so you know, people often dump trash in other organizations’ dumpsters. Ironically, it’s a form of theft. Stealing dumpster space.”

  Achilles didn’t respond.

  Vic jumped into the gap. “At the beginning of our call, you said you might have something for me. You said it depended on what I had for you. Do you have something now?”

  “I have a thought.”

  “I hope it’s enough to assuage my boss for being late to his staff meeting.”

  “Your text hasn’t come through yet.”

  Vic pressed SEND. His screen confirmed delivery.

  A few seconds later, Achilles said, “Thank you. Here’s my thought. What if Oz didn’t buy PPS to make jetpacks?”

  Vic hadn’t seen that coming. Given the source, he took the question at face value and thought out loud. “Was there some asset he wanted? The intellectual property? The building lease?”

  “In a matter of speaking, yes. What if he wanted their permit?”

  “Their permit for what? To fly in restricted airspace?” That was an interesting angle. Had nothing to do with kidnapping people in California, but it was worth exploring.

  “Their permit to buy rocket fuel ingredients,” Achilles said.

  Vic’s hopes dropped. “What’s so special about that?”

  “Many of those chemicals are controlled substances. And for good reason.”

  “What reason is that?”

  “They’re not just used to formulate rocket fuel. They’re also used to make explosives. The serious stuff. Military grade.”

  72

  Willie Pete

  Florida

  I NEEDED an expert in explosives. A chemist. Someone whose knowledge far exceeded my own.

  Google served up a potentially perfect solution.

  The University of Central Florida was
home to the National Center for Forensic Science, whose mission is to provide professional training in the areas of fire debris and explosives.

  Excited by the serendipitous discovery, I copied the faculty list off their website onto my phone, then drove an hour west to Orlando. The NCFS was a modern-looking white building with blue glass. I mused that it would work well playing itself in a television show.

  So would the professor I encountered while approaching the front door.

  Dr. Emile Wisecock looked exactly like his online faculty photo, which in turn looked exactly like a proper British chemist—from a hundred years ago. He had a neatly clipped strawberry blond mustache that matched the rest of his properly combed hair, but it was the armless round wire-framed eyeglasses clinging to his nose that did the trick. That and the aged leather briefcase he toted. The modern coffee cup in his other hand spoiled the image a bit, but I was willing to bet there was tea with milk beneath the plastic lid.

  “Excuse me, Professor Wisecock. Do you have a minute?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said.

  Apparently, I looked like a student. I supposed the NCFS would do a lot of seminars for mid-career active duty military and law enforcement.

  I followed him to his office, which was neat around the edges but cluttered near the desk. The shelves with their books and baubles—a pan balance, an antique microscope, a brass apparatus I didn’t recognize—appeared to be strictly for show, whereas the old oak table was clearly where the action happened.

  Wisecock gestured me toward a well-worn wooden chair and took his own behind the desk. He enjoyed a sip of his hot beverage, then asked, “How may I help you?”

  “I have a puzzle for you, Professor.”

  The strawberry blond eyebrows raised.

  “How do you make a bomb out of potatoes and eggs?”

  “That sounds more like a knock-knock joke.”

  “I know. But it’s a serious question. I’m assisting the FBI in an investigation where terrorists are working with eggs and potatoes.”